


fire to sate the appetite

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Fëanor Lives AU, M/M, Melkor is a dick, Rape/Non-con Elements, if you've read Abuse of Power (in Ship Amnesty Night) this is kind of a sequel, might be featured, not necessary to read that though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor is taken to Angband instead of perishing, and Melkor is all too pleased to see him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For sithisit. This might shape up to be longer than I originally promised, but I know a few people want to see this so hopefully nobody will complain.

The dark halls of Angband are unusually silent tonight, at least nearest the heart of the stronghold - the room where Melkor's great throne sits.  
  
Tonight, the great lord recieves a great gift from his general, and Gothmog has warned them all to keep quiet. Nothing should spoil the moment.   
  
"I know you have been troubled as of late, my lord," Gothmog said, his voice rumbling like the echo of an avalanche in the great hall. "I thought that perhaps you would appreciate a distraction, something to fill hours that are not spent on the war with..."  
  
"Get to the point," Melkor snapped. His temper has been shorter of late, now that the Silmarils glow on his brow and his hands are blackened; but for once Gothmog does not look saddened at his lord's sharpness. Instead, he smiles and bows his head.   
  
"Bring him in," he said; the pair of fiery maiar waiting by the door nod in response and vanish, only to return a moment later with a figure between them who was made small by their massive frames. Melkor sat up straight in his throne, hands relaxing and eyes widening.   
  
"My lord," Gothmog said, thoroughly enjoying himself, "your gift." Striding over to his subordinates, he waved them back, grabbing the slighter figure by the scruff of the neck himself, and went to the foot of the throne. With his free hand he tilted the captive's face up, claws lightly grazing fair skin. "Fëanáro, as you have said you desire to have."  
  
The elf wrenched his head away and spat at his hand. Gothmog ignored him, eyes on his lord's face.   
  
Melkor did not speak for a moment or so, and the only sound was that of Fëanáro's harsh breathing; but a slow smile curved his mouth, and when he spoke it was with a tone suffused with pleasure, such as Gothmog had not heard for some time.   
  
"Truly, my general, you have given me an excellent gift. Is his capture known to the other Eldar?"  
  
Gothmog frowned slightly; most of the capture he had managed himself, but here he had been forced to request Sauron's help, and that rankled with him. "No, my lord. Sauron fashioned a false form of him that I allowed his sons to capture; it will be able to speak little, but soon perish, and so they should not notice. His capture will not be known unless you wish it to be."  
  
He had been concerned about that aspect of it, but Melkor seemed pleased. "That is good." Leaning forward, he looked down at Fëanor with his eyes glittering. "I do not wish you to be ransomed or rescued, after all," he said. "As futile as any attempts might be, it will be less troublesome to put a stop to them before they begin. You will not go from this place, Fëanáro, except by my leave."  
  
Fëanor finally met his eyes, then, with a glare of defiance. "I will not take any leave or offer from you, Morgoth," he said, trying to stand straighter. Gothmog's heavy hand resting at the base of his neck made it difficult, as did the various injuries that he suffered; blood was dripping down one of his legs, Gothmog noted.   
  
"Someday you shall," Melkor said, certainty heavy in his voice, then returned his attention to Gothmog. "I wish him cleaned and healed before I see him again. Give him into the care of the Eldar servants," he added, as Gothmog turned for the door, and there was malice in his voice. "He will see what he might be brought to."  
  
Fëanor hissed between his teeth, but Gothmog laughed.   
  
"You're fulfilling your purpose well," he said to the elf when the door had closed behind them and he had started down the corridor. "I have not seen Lord Melkor so cheered for some time."  
  
"He will not be so cheered," Fëanor said, through his teeth still, "when I drive a sword through his foul hide."  
  
"You will not have the opportunity," Gothmog said, almost amiably, and as they reached a new room he threw Fëanor to the floor. The slaves in the room jumped at his sudden arrival but hurried to stand at attention.   
  
"Clean him, tend to his wounds," he ordered them, gesturing to Fëanor. "He goes to Lord Melkor tonight."  
  
He contemplated telling one of the redheads to come to his quarters later, but reconsidered. Sauron had been far less happy about the prospect of capturing Fëanor; likely the smith would want some kind of company, with their master otherwise occupied.   
  
Smiling at the thought, he went from the room, ignoring Fëanor's curses that followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting the 'bathe' in 'bathe him and bring him to me'

The water that flowed into the huge bath seemed to be either bubbling hot or icy cold; it took the quiet people that now surrounded Fëanor several minutes to get it to a more normal temperature, pulling one lever and then another.   
  
Fëanor went to the door, at first, but it had been closed and did not seem to have a way to be opened - perhaps it could simply be pushed to and fro by the monstrous forms of the Ainur. There seemed to be no other exit in the massive room, save for a gaping darkness high up on the wall, which the smooth stone of the wall offered no passage to. And at that point his investigation was interrupted; one of the quiet elves approached him and tugged at his arm.   
  
"I will not -" he began, angrily, but more of them surrounded him; no enmity, but weariness and worry on their faces. He felt as if striking out at them would be hitting a child; and more than that, every inch of his body was laced with pain. Perhaps it would be wise to submit for the moment, allow himself to be tended to - even though thinking that set his teeth on edge, and it took every ounce of his willpower to relax as they began to strip him of his shattered armor. He needed his strength, he reminded himself, closing his eyes to concentrate. There was nothing to be gained by fighting at the present moment.   
  
He opened his eyes again, and pulled away from an elf who was beginning to pull at his ruined tunic. "I can undress myself," he said sharply, and was met with uncomprehending eyes.   
  
Fëanor swallowed hard, looking at all of them. A large number, he noticed, were redheads. They could easily be related to Nerdanel; Mahtan had spoken of relatives lost to the Dark Rider. Avari who had never known the light of the Trees, or likely any light but that inside Angband. An ugly chill going through him, he wondered whether any of them would be able to understand him.   
  
"What language do you speak?" he muttered, half to himself and half to the Avari pressing around him.   
  
The one he had pulled away from shook his head, as if giving up on understanding, and reached for him again. Fëanor took a step back. "No!" He held up his hand, feeling sick with pain at his sudden movement. "I can... I can do it myself." He began to pull off his tunic, and they finally seemed to understand; most of them even fell back a little, and a few looked away.   
  
Bile rose to his mouth at discarding what little he had between him and the air of Angband, poor armor though it might be, but he could see no other path. He struggled for a few minutes with his breeches and injured leg, and finally had to accept the help of a red-haired male Avari who came to his side. He looked, Fëanor thought with a sudden chill, rather like Maedhros.   
  
If he had anyone left to pray to, he might have made one then, that Maedhros never come to this place.   
  
When he was naked one or two of them knelt by him, inspecting his wounds with light touches. They began speaking to each other, to his surprise - he had almost begun to think they had been made mute, but it was in no language he understood. It sounded rather ugly, with elvish tongues and lips shaping short, rough sounds, but he found himself growing interested in it, searching for patterns in what he heard - anything to distract him from the humiliating situation.   
  
After a minute of talking one of them got up and went to the other side of the room, out of sight, and the others began cleaning his wounds. Fëanor gritted his teeth against the pain and leant his head back, trying to think, trying to ignore his surroundings for a moment - if he thought upon the elves surrounding him any longer, he feared he might truly drive himself to sickness, and he couldn't afford to be weak. His sons did not know he was alive - perhaps that was for the best. Much as he hated to admit Melkor was right, it was likely any attempt to rescue him would fail, would only lead to them expending their forces and making themselves easy prey. Maedhros was responsible; he would take charge well, no doubt, although they would all be suffering.   
  
But he could not simply sit idle with that knowledge. As slim as his chances of escape were, if he escaped it would be with knowledge of Angband, and that would be of incalculable value.   
  
Perhaps if he was taken to other parts of the fortress, he would be able to find a way out.  
  
And if that didn't happen - perhaps he would find a way to take the Silmarils, at least. Better that they be destroyed than in Morgoth's hands.  
  
His thoughts were broken into as there was a rustling in the air, and a voice cut through the sound of the water.  
  
"Well, Prince Fëanáro. What an unexpected honor."  
  
Guessing at what he would see, Fëanor looked up with his teeth already clenched in anger, and it was not misdirected. Half like one of the Eldar, and half like a great bat-winged creature, Sauron sat on the edge of the opening high in the wall and smiled.  
  
"Why are you here?" Fëanor said. "Has your master, coward that he is, sent you to judge my mood before I am in his presence again?"  
  
Sauron laughed softly and dropped to the ground. His wings folded behind him and vanished, seeming to melt into his robe.  
  
"Nay, defiant Prince. One of my little servants came to fetch me -" his hand fell gently upon the head of an elf who stood by his side, as one might pat a dog, "- because my lord Melkor does not wish you stumbling about wounded when he receives you tonight."  
  
He approached, and Fëanor had to crane his head back; Sauron had made himself far taller than any of the Eldar, and the smirk that played about his lips suggested he enjoyed the advantage. Hands that seemed unusually long and thin, fingers like the legs of spiders, emerged from the sleeves of his robe and reached towards Fëanor.  
  
"Do not touch me," Fëanor hissed, unable to contain his disgust.  
  
Sauron smiled, slow and sharp. "Although it might be only in character for you, Spirit of Fire, to be graceless and rude to your hosts, it is downright foolishness to fight." Again he looked at the silent Avari, and they ducked their heads beneath his gaze. "Any of my servants could tell you that. If you behave well, your life here will be far easier."  
  
"It will be far easier for you to attempt to break me, you mean," Fëanor said tightly. "Your 'servants', you call them - your slaves. Ever the master of thralls, as your master is; unable to bring free folk to your side. I shall not bow -"  
  
Sauron gave a sigh and his hands shot out; Fëanor found himself siezed and held, as the other elves drew back, and Sauron bent over him like the slow crumbling of a wall.   
  
"Ever tiresome, Fëanáro," he said, long fingers sliding over Fëanor's bare skin; more arms emerged from the sleeves of his robe, and Fëanor gave a stifled gasp of pain as every wound he had began to suffer poking and prodding. "I will heal you, because it is my lord's will; but I would dearly enjoy sentencing you to the darkness of the pits, where your wounds might fester for all of me. There are things in the darkness that love to feed on blood, and perhaps their company would make you less proud."  
  
Fëanor could not reply; his body felt as if it were burning, as bad as it had been when Gothmog had surrounded him with fire on the battlefield. There was something sticky on his skin, something other than blood, and Sauron's slitted-pupil eyes boring into his were making his head ache fiercely.   
  
"Perhaps when my master grows tired of you," Sauron said, softly, "I will still have the pleasure of seeing that happen."  
  
The fire spilled away from Fëanor's skin, and he was able to breathe. Sauron dropped him, extra arms sliding back into his robe and vanishing as his wings had, and Fëanor barely managed to keep to his feet. Sauron's mouth curled with scornful amusement.   
  
"Pretending at strength will not do you any good," he said, and a gentle push to the chest sent Fëanor stumbling back. The bath was behind him; he fell, felt the water close over his head, and before he could try to struggle to the surface again with weakened limbs hands closed around his arms.   
  
Sauron pulled him to the surface, kneeling at the side of the huge bath now with his fiery robe spilling on the smooth stone floor around him, and smiled with deceptive sweetness at Fëanor's gasps for air. "The stronger you seem to be, the more my lord will want you," he said gently, a note of indulgence entering his tone; like Gothmog, he sounded as if he found Fëanor's struggles fondly amusing, like a child trying to climb a too-high barrier. "He is looking forward to breaking you to his will, sweet Fëanáro."  
  
Fëanor spat water, feeling his body shuddering instinctively at the touch of Sauron's hands - broad and callused now, befitting a smith. "I will not give him the satisfaction of submitting," he said, voice shaking a little. Truth be told, he doubted he could put on a convincing act of submitting - lies had never been part of the way he lived, no matter how valuable they might be.   
  
"Oh, you have already given him a taste of it."  
  
Fëanor narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"  
  
Sauron merely laughed, his hands sliding a little down Fëanor's arms - for a moment Fëanor feared they would move further, take the path Sauron's eyes were tracing, but at the last moment the Maia released him, smirking. Fëanor caught the side of the bath to hold himself above the water as Sauron stood, and realized that his body now only ached a little. His wounds were all closed, nothing but faint scarring etching his body where they had been.   
  
"I'm sure he will remind you of it when you meet." Sauron gazed down at him for a moment longer, golden eyes pinning him like a sword, before giving a last short laugh and turning away. He said something more to the slaves, in the same harsh and heavy tongue they had spoken before, and his robe split down the back; in a moment it was two wings again, and Fëanor flinched and ducked his head against the foul wind from them as he took to the air.   
  
A moment later he was gone, and Fëanor let out a shaky breath of relief, resting his head against the hand clenched on the bath-side. The presence of the silent elves was disturbing, but nowhere near as sickening as Sauron's company.   
  
It was a pity he would have no time to rest before he had to face Melkor.


	3. Chapter 3

"Welcome, Fëanáro."  
  
Melkor lounged in a curve of rock that served as a chair, enjoying the sight of Fëanor stumbling slightly over one of the ridges in the floor. Of all the rooms in Angband, Melkor's private room was the one most reminiscent of Utumno; fluidly made, with rock whipped up as if it were so much water, and full of color. He felt calm here, and powerful.   
  
The glow of the Silmarils on his brow and Fëanor standing small before him certainly helped as well.  
  
"Why so silent?" he asked with a chuckle, as Fëanor simply stared up at him, eyes narrowed. "Does my hospitality not suit you?"  
  
"The hospitality of a theif is never to be enjoyed," Fëanor answered coldly.   
  
Melkor took a moment to savor his appearance - the proud curve of his neck, the pale scars on his skin, the exhaustion in his defiant eyes - before answering.   
  
"A thief? Nay, I do not think so. After all, you left the gems out of your care, and I defeated the guard. I would say I won them fairly." He tapped a claw against the center one, counting the sear of pain a low enough cost in return for the fury in Fëanor's eyes. "And perhaps they always belonged to me, in a way. I inspired you in the past, after all."  
  
"You have never inspired me to anything but disgust," Fëanor hissed, and there it was - Melkor had caused the elf to lie a little already. Once, in the past, Fëanor had almost been swayed by his words; once, in the past, he had looked at Melkor with interest.   
  
A little lie always led to a bigger one, and a bigger one led to dark caverns of doubt within the mind. Melkor almost squirmed in delight at the thought of making such to exploit, to break Fëanor down through the gaps beneath his brave facade.   
  
And he could begin the process now.   
  
"Really?" He made a mock-hurt face, laying a burnt hand upon his chest. "I thought I was an influence upon you in the past, Fëanáro."  
  
"Do not attempt to claim so," Fëanor snapped. "Do not dare. I will not tolerate such things from a murderer."  
  
"But we had such talks!" Melkor made an exaggerated pause, then laughed. "Or rather, I talked and you listened." He tapped a claw against his chin. "Let's see... _your half-brothers steal everything you have. You have already lost your wife; and one by one you are losing the loyalty of your sons. Foolish, for all you think yourself wise_."  
  
He laughed louder at the expression of horror on Fëanor's face. "Does it sound familiar yet?"  
  
It should; it had been what he had whispered to him in the past, over and over until it would part of the endless round of Fëanor's restless mind. And judging by Fëanor's eyes, he recognized it quite well.   
  
"You planted the seeds of dissent among the elves," Fëanor said, his voice very quiet. "Or you are pulling thoughts from my head - but there was always something dark and strange about those thoughts."  
  
Melkor leant forward on his throne, smiling wider; he was growing tired of viewing Fëanor at a distance, and ready to move on to a different kind of fun. "And if I did that," he said, "perhaps your inspiration was not entirely your own, hm?"  
  
Fëanor looked up, pride and fury flashing again in his eyes. "Do not think you can persuade me of that," he said; and then, of all things, a smiled curved his mouth. He gestured to Melkor's burnt hands. "Have you not learnt well enough already to not touch what is not yours? There is nothing of your poison in the Silmarils; they will never truly belong to you."  
  
It seemed as if the bright gems blazed stronger at Fëanor's words, and Melkor's eyes narrowed in pain even as he gritted his teeth in anger. Fëanor's helpless fury was enjoyable, but contempt - he could not stand that. He would see that smile gone.   
  
Rising from his throne, he loomed over Fëanor. The body he wore could still shift, ever so slightly, its form - broadening bone and stretching skin - until he stood almost to the height of the cavernous room. His entire body burned with pain now, but he did not show it. Instead, he scooped Fëanor up like a child's ragdoll, pinning his torso between two claws and raising him to eye level.   
  
"You will do well to watch your tongue," he hissed, in the voice of a fiery mountain. "There are many torments I could visit upon you, but if you anger me further I might simply squash you, and let your soul wander to the Eternal Darkness where you so foolishly swore you would go -"  
  
Fëanor twisted in his grip and bit his finger. Melkor howled in pain, almost dropping him, and tightened his grip vindictively.   
  
"You _will_ submit to me!" he roared, his temper flaming uncontrollably as dark blood seeped from the bite-mark.   
  
Fëanor flinched at the sound, but fury and pride won over fear in his eyes as he looked back at Melkor.   
  
"Never," he spat. Several choice descriptions of what Melkor was followed, but Melkor paid no heed; gritting his teeth against the pain, he let his size decrease, turning towards the curve of rock as he did so, until he was only a few heads taller than the elf, but far broader, and pinned Fëanor against the natural seat in the rock. Fëanor squirmed against his grasp, and Melkor laughed breathlessly.   
  
"You shall not escape punishment for your insolence," he said, his anger still burning hot, then glanced towards the door. He could sense someone there, likely summoned by his shouts. "Sauron, come."  
  
The Maiar approached with a calm expression, his hands clasped behind his back; he wore simple clothing, and the form he wore was tough and muscular. He had been interrupted at work by his master's cry of pain, most likely, Melkor thought; and would not be feeling kindly towards Fëanor. With a vicious grin, he released the elf and took a few steps back.   
  
"Bind him," he ordered, crossing his arms and watching Fëanor struggling to rise. "He has displeased me and must be... shown his place."  
  
Sauron raised an eyebrow, but did not comment further than "Do you also want me to move him to the bed, my lord?"  
  
Melkor hesitated; much as the idea of a softer surface, kinder on his body, was appealing, he did not want to show weakness. "Leave him there," he said, "I am not concerned for his comfort. And strip him."  
  
Sauron nodded, going back to his absence of expression, and reached into the deep pockets of his work apron. Melkor leant back against the cool stone, glad that the pain in his body was slowly lessening, and enjoyed the sight of Sauron subduing Fëanor's struggles with quick efficiency.   
  
When Sauron was nearly finished, Melkor approached them both again. "Well done," he breathed against Sauron's ear, feeling a tremor go through him; then he carefully removed his crown, taking care not to sigh at the weight taken off his head, and put it upon a nearby rocky outcrop.   
  
The white light gleamed off the red and threads of gold in the stone, making them into fire, and glinted off Fëanor's exposed skin as Sauron finished the task of stripping him. Melkor caught his breath at the beauty of the effect, savoring the fluttering pulse he could see in Fëanor's exposed neck, the helplessness of his situation - laid like a sacrifice upon the stone, bound at ankles and wrists and shamefully naked. With a low laugh, Melkor reached out and raked a hand through Fëanor's dark hair, eliciting a disgusted gasp that only made him more pleased.   
  
"A sweet sight, this," he said, voice low. "Sauron, leave us. Attend to your work."  
  
As always, Sauron obeyed, with a murmured "Yes, my lord," before leaving the room. Melkor could sense his frustration as he left, but waved that away; he could take out his frustration on his work, or with someone else. At the moment, what lay before him was most important.   
  
"I will make you scream," he murmured happily, tracing a claw over the bare vulnerability of Fëanor's stomach.   
  
"Even if you do, that will not make you more than you are, Morgoth," Fëanor hissed; but his eyes flickered to the side, fearful for the first time.   
  
Melkor smiled. "Perhaps I can change your mind upon that matter."


	4. Chapter 4

The pain was something almost beyond belief, fire that bloomed from below his waist and raced up his spine down again, a solid thing that made his head jerk back against the stone, the ringing of the blow to his head almost a relief from it. Melkor purred in satisfaction, the vibration of the sound mixing with the pain, making it shiver and spike, flooding his body as if it were poison in his blood. It wrung a scream from him, finally, that left his throat raw. 

The worst thing about it, however, was that little by little it faded. Melkor was not moving, was only holding him in place, burnt claws resting on his sides. And every moment the pain was less, every moment it did not fill his vision and mind with no room for thought, he became a little more aware of what was happening, what was within him, of the shiver and twitch of his body trying to adjust to it or push it out. 

"It will not kill you," Melkor said, and laughed. One of his clawed hands reached forward to play with a lock of Fëanor's sweat-damp hair, and Fëanor forced his eyes open a crack to see the Vala leer at him. "But it is a pleasure to see you squirm, set on my cock."

Fëanor hissed softly in anger and pain, but lacked the strength to do more. Melkor's grin grew more cruel. 

"Tell me, has anyone before me tasted this pleasure?" he asked, leaning closer over Fëanor, his breath hot on his face. "Some strong-armed smith when you were a young apprentice, perhaps, who taught you more than the working of metal? Did you whimper and wriggle so exquisitely when he took you -"

"Shut... your mouth, Morgoth..." Fëanor forced out, trying to turn his face away from the caress of Melkor's blackened claws. 

"Or your noble half-brother?" Melkor chuckled when Fëanor went still at that. "Hatred can lend to a certain kind of passion, after all, and the hatred between you was so... deliciously intense; did it ever lead to anything? You might be too proud to let him take you, but I wonder what you did to earn his forgiveness after you threatened him. Did you beg, Fëanáro?"

Fëanáro did not even try to respond; just closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath. He had always known that the stories people told, that if one of the Eldar was violated the spirit would leave their body, were not completely true; but for a moment he felt the pain of his fëa fighting against the sickening pain of his body, and almost wished his spirit were one of those that departed so easily. 

As if reading his mind, Melkor gave another quiet hum of satisfaction and withdrew his hand. "So silent. Do you fear to die, Fëanáro?" He moved slightly, a mere twitch of the hips, and a cry almost left Fëanor's mouth at the movement of the great girth within in. "I do not think so, Spirit of Fire. You are too proud, too stubborn, and your body suffered my touch without your knowing for some time with you not so much as feeling faint. Beside that, whether you survive this or perish -" Melkor laughed again, "I win."

Fëanor bit his lip and fought down the bile that rose in his throat. He would not die, he was sure of that, if only because he did not truly want to. He could not let Melkor simply take the last word, the last triumph and think himself superior to Fëanor forever. No - he would survive, and find some way to fight back. 

That resolution made, it still left the matter of surviving the next little while - and now Melkor was moving, pulling back and out, reawakening the pain. It was not as intense as before, his body having begun to accommodate it - but it still set him gasping for breath, bound hands pressing against the rock to try and find purchase. His knuckles were scraped, but he barely registered the sting.

He had, despite Melkor's taunts, not had much experience with being the recipient during sex between men, and he doubted that even the most experienced would be able to accept Melkor's enlarged size easily; as Melkor slid back in Fëanor fixed his eyes on the Silmarils and tried to focus on them, only them. 

They gleamed brightly, almost searing his vision, but he squinted and endured it. The crown, he noted with a vicious satisfaction - gritting his teeth against another cry of pain - did not suit them as a setting; they were at odds with each other, dark metal and bright stones, rather than complementing each other. His eyes flickered down to Melkor's burnt hands, and despite his pain his mouth curved in a smile. For all he had resented Varda stepping in to bless them without his asking, he was glad of the damage they inflicted. 

He lost his train of thought and let out a gasp of pain as Melkor drove into him again, but Melkor had caught his expression. 

"What have you to smile for?" he muttered, and Fëanor's eyes went involuntarily to his hands again. 

Melkor's gaze followed his, and Fëanor could feel the burnt claws' grip tighten little by little on his hips until they pierced his skin. 

"Pleased with my state, are you?" Melkor said, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. 

Fëanor did not know what to expect, but Melkor did not give him much time to anticipate. He slammed into him again, hammerblow thrusts that sent new rivers of pain through Fëanor's spine and torso and rocked his entire body with the motion, and Fëanor's mouth fall open with cries of pain that would not stop. 

After what seemed like an eternity, perhaps only a few minutes, he stopped, buried in Fëanor to the hilt; a low growl spilled from his half-open mouth as he came. Fëanor turned his face to the side, gasping for breath that was suddenly harsh in his throat. 

Melkor bent low over him, the roughened surfaces of his burnt hands flattened against Fëanor's shoulders, brushing his face, his voice a malevolent whisper. "You think yourself any purer than I in the eyes of the Valar, Fëanáro? You think you have already a triumph because I was so injured in the capture of the Silmarils?"

Fëanor, trembling with pain, could not answer. Melkor pulled out, leaving him aching through his entire body, and reached up to gather the crown closer, his breath coming quick and harsh. He leant down again, and siezed Fëanor's bound hands. 

"Your creations," he said, "but will they accept you?" and pressed his hands to the surface of one of the white gems.


	5. Chapter 5

The sky was washed with soot and obscured by smoky clouds, with no chance of starlight piercing through. That was a comfort, at least. Melkor was feeling himself beginning to calm down.   
  
Sauron entered the room, silent - more like a cat at the moment than anything else. His second-in-command tried to keep his shape-changing discreet unless it were commanded directly by Melkor - but Melkor could always tell. It seemed that his own bound state had left him more acutely aware of other people's abilities to easily change, and that in turn made the pain from his size-changing earlier ever more keen.   
  
"Well?" Melkor asked sharply, not looking at Sauron.  
  
"He is not fully aware yet, my lord, but beginning to stir."  
  
"You know what I'm asking about; don't pretend ignorance."  
  
There was a pause that was just a beat too long. "His hands are burned," Sauron said finally. "He has done wrong in the eyes of the Valar, after all - the Kinslaying, leaving Valinor, abandoning his half-brother -"  
  
"How badly," Melkor said slowly, "are they burned?" He looked down at his own hands. The pain in them was so constant he was barely aware of it now - he could still remember the slow terrible moments he had felt the Silmarils begin to burn through the box they were in, eat away at his palms. How once or twice, in the end, he might have dropped them had it not been for a mixture of stubborn pride and fear of what he would see when he opened his fingers.  
  
He had favored black, before, but the charred surfaces of his hands would never be anything but repulsive to him, a reminder of what he had lost.  
  
Sauron let out a soft sigh, apparently deciding to cease his evading. "They are not as badly burned as yours, my lord. With time - much time - and care, they might recover, and they are not unusable."  
  
Of course. "I did not force him to touch them long," Melkor said sharply.  
  
"Indeed, my lord. It is probably only due to that that he has not lost the use of them entirely."  
  
And now his second-in-command was _humoring_ him. Melkor closed his hand as tightly as he could; the tips of his claws dug through burnt skin until they pierced still-living flesh and dark blood welled up. He could remember the pressure of Fëanor's hipbone in the palm of his hand, the screams of pain he had forced from Fëanor's mouth, but it was not enough.  
  
"I want him humiliated," he said, very quietly.  
  
Sauron did not reply, but merely provided an expectant silence.  
  
"Insolent, proud -" Melkor ground his teeth together. "Pain is not good enough," he said, through them. "Pain might satisfy for a moment, but then - he sneers and thinks to himself that brute strength is all I am brought to, that he is _noble_ for enduring -!" He slammed his fist against the wall, and Sauron's hand landed lightly on his shoulder.  
  
"My lord," Sauron said hastily, golden eyes glowing with concern, "If he is troubling you so, would it not be better to merely put him to death? Display his body for his sons to see, perhaps."  
  
"No!" Melkor snapped, vaguely aware that he sounded childish, but not caring. "I want him to suffer - if I ever kill him, it will be after he has been reduced to a begging slave and I have grown tired of him!"  
  
Sauron's hand still rested on Melkor's shoulder, fingers caressing absentmindedly, but interest was blooming in his eyes, making them distant. "You want him to beg?" he said, thoughtfully.  
  
Distracted a little himself, Melkor lowered his hand, letting it open a little. "Have you a plan, Mairon?"  
  
"I would not presume to intervene in such a... personal pleasure, of breaking an old enemy, usually" Sauron said, expression carefully noncommittal, "but you seem tired, my lord, and troubled beyond what Fëanáro, who is no more than an insect to your greatness, deserves."  
  
"Flatterer," Melkor grunted, not wholly displeased. "Out with your plan."  
  
"I have been developing many things, my lord, in addition to the poisons you requested for the war..."

 

 

  
  
Fëanor could move his hands, a little, but it sent searing pain through his fingers and seemed to greatly distress the Avar tending to him. They were wrapped in bandages - as per an order of Melkor sent through one of the fiery Maiar - but he still remembered what they looked like underneath, the blotches of red and pink, and the sensation when he had first been forced into contact with the Silmarils.  
  
He had woken once or twice before this, but not fully, and it had been only in a haze of blind panic. Now he sat quietly, flexing his fingers every now and then, reassurance that he could still use them.  
  
They had not burned him as badly as they had Melkor; he had received burns almost as bad when he was young and reckless around fire.  
  
 _But he held them for longer. They burned you_. The voice at the back of his head, nagging, spiteful, would not go away. He thought that it might have been the time that Melkor had spent whispering lies to him in the past that made it sound like the Vala.  
  
 _Lies? Weren't half of the things he said true, did not many of his predictions come to pass?_  
  
Fëanor gave a soft hiss of anger, closed his eyes and then rapidly opened them again when unwelcome images to mind.  
  
The burning of his hands might lie heavier on him than Melkor's violation - his soul still burned, firmly residing in his body - but the two of them combined left him feeling ill and strangely hollow. His body aching and the throbbing of his hands had grown almost natural, at this point, many hours after he had woken up; something to accept instead of fight -   
  
No. He clenched his hands, the jolts of pain that went through him waking his brain a little, and got to his feet. The Avar that had been tending to him - the redhead that had unsettled him most, likely because Sauron had taken note of that - came quickly to his side, dark eyes narrowed in distress, and tried to push him back down on the bed he had woken up on.   
  
"No," Fëanor said aloud, shaking off his hands and looking around. This room seemed almost stiflingly small compared to many of the rooms in Angband, but still there were no clear exits. After a minute or two, though, he pinpointed a hairline crack that outlined a door, and started for it.   
  
"Don't."   
  
The voice, soft and unthreatening as it was, almost made him jump out of his skin; he turned so quickly as to awaken a whole new host of aches and pains in his body, and stared at the Avar, who met his gaze fearfully.   
  
"Did you speak?" he demanded, and then, "You speak Quenya?" because that seemed to matter equally.   
  
"A little," the Avar replied, after a long pause. His accent was terrible.   
  
"Why didn't you talk before? I thought you might have had your voice taken by Sauron."  
  
The Avar shook his head, crossing the room to him; it appeared that he was picking and choosing the least amount of words he could to explain with. "I... don't like to speak," he said, when he stood face-to-face with Fëanor. "And there is an order. Speak little to you. Please, back to bed."  
  
"No," Fëanor said, not deterred from his course even in shaken amazment. "They might still expect me to be too weak to escape. If I go now -"  
  
"More than a day."  
  
Fëanor frowned. "What?"   
  
The Avar looked distinctly uncomfortable at the amount he was being forced to speak. "Since you came here. Lord Sauron knows. Comes soon."  
  
"Then you should let me leave immediately, because there is no time!"   
  
"Not fully healed..."  
  
"I don't care," Fëanor hissed, growing angry despite knowing that the Avar was not the one to be angry at it. It made sense, though, that he had recieved some healing already as the Avari seemed to be trying to indicate - painful as his body and hands were, he doubted he would even be able to move unless he had been healed somewhat. Blink-quick, the image and sensation of Melkor forcing into him flashed across his memory, and he shuddered. "Out of my way," he said sharply, and went to the door.   
  
There did not seem to be a handle; he guessed there was a hidden way to open it, a pressure-triggered latch - his hands felt as if they were on fire, though, when he brought his fingers in contact with the rock. There was no way he could find the right point if he had no proper feeling in his fingers, he thought, and fear surged bright and hot through him again.   
  
The Avar's thin hands covered his bandaged ones gently, encouraging them back from the door; even that gentle touch sent spasms of pain through them. It was not even the backs of his hands that were burnt, it had only been the palms, how could it hurt this much, he thought, and realized he was saying it aloud when the Avari kept nodding, face pinched with worry.   
  
Fëanor found himself, for one of the only times in his life, persuaded back to bed. He was tired, so very tired, and the pain simply would not ebb; he could at least admit to himself that it would be the wiser course to get as much rest as he could when he could. And surely he would awaken when Sauron came, and be able to see how the door worked...   
  
He was wrong. Sauron came as silent as a breeze, in a form as slight as a bird, slipping through an almost-invisible opening near the ceiling. While Fëanor slept, he blossomed outwards into a size more comparable to the Avar who bowed his head to him.  
  
"Let him rest for... two more days. Keep him asleep as much as possible," he instructed, and set a few bottles - blue, green, red - upon the table. "Dose him with the blue to make him sleep, the green to speed healing."  
  
The Avar nodded - he was one of Sauron's most trusted slaves, to be allowed to handle his potions and mixtures, and as such allowed to ask a question or two. "And the red one, my lord?"

Sauron absentmindedly petted the Avar's dark red hair, smiling at some secret thought. 

"That is for when his time of healing is up, before he is sent to Lord Melkor. Pour it in the bath then;  it is best absorbed through his skin."

The Avar had spent a long time in Angband, compared to most who came there, and knew that empathy did not serve him well. 

Still, he recognized the look in his master's eyes, and could not help feeling a sharp twinge of pity for the Noldo asleep on the bed. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the lateness, and for the fact I cannot seem to write a single chapter of this thing without a cliffhangery ending. The next update should be within under a week - I think the story's going to last for three or four more chapters.

Fëanor and the Avar, who refused any attempt Fëanor made at finding out his name, were at a standstill.   
  
When Sauron entered the room - pouring like smoke through the opening on the wall before landing on the floor and drawing himself up to a height a head or two above them - he looked at the Avar's distressed face and Fëanor's scowl and clicked his tongue.   
  
"Ah, I see you two are having trouble," he said, far more like a teacher finding two of his students arguing than a captor speaking to a captive and a slave. "Tell me -" and he switched to the strange, dark speech that Fëanor had heard once before, from the other Avari shortly after he arrived; it made his ears hum with something close to pain. The Avar looked up and replied, more swiftly or freely than Fëanor had ever heard him speak before, in the same tongue.  
  
"I see," Sauron said finally, and looked at Fëanor with annoyance. "Trying to escape again? This little one says you've been pestering him with questions and trying to get up every time you've awoken."  
  
"I have been drugged with potions so that I can scarcely wake," Fëanor gritted through his teeth. "He administered them to me. You expect me to suffer that peaceably?"  
  
"Sadly, no." Sauron had clear distaste in his eyes. "You are quite the troublemaker, Fëanáro."  
  
In a breath of time he swept closer, his golden eyes not an inch away from Fëanor's; Fëanor could not keep himself from flinching.   
  
"I think," Sauron said, his voice low, "you are more trouble than you are worth. But my lord still has use for you, and so you live. It is at his pleasure you are kept whole, not thrown to the wolves or taken to the Pits to breed a stronger race of orc. You would do well to remember that."  
  
"If you have made yourself so useful to him he made you his second-in-command," Fëanor said coldly, not giving Sauron the satisfaction of seeming afraid after his initial flinch, "I have little to fear."  
  
Sauron's eyes flashed with anger. "All you have left is words, Fëanáro," he hissed back, and suddenly his hand darted out; Fëanor let out an involuntary cry of pain as his hand was sharply squeezed in Sauron's clawed fingers. "If you are so foolish with them around my lord - remember, your precious creations could ensure that you never create again. You would still be a pretty toy without your hands; you do not need them to pleasure Lord Melkor well enough."  
  
For one of the first times in his life, Fëanor's throat was closed in fear so he was unable to speak, and Sauron smiled.   
  
"Much better. Now, I suggest you allow my servant to help you bathe; I will be waiting when you are done, to take you to Lord Melkor. He wishes to see you again."  
  
In another breath of time he had drifted to the door and it opened for him; a surge of adrenaline went through Fëanor as his mind conjured up desperate plans of running for the door and - there was no way he could get past Sauron, his imagination stopped short there - but the door closed far too quickly for that.   
  
Fëanor closed his eyes for a moment, feeling blood pounding in his ears, and took deep breaths. His heart was knocking against his chest, his hand throbbing where Sauron's fingertips had bit into it, his knees weak with shock.   
  
How had it all come to this? Eyes still closed, he tried to picture the world outside, Middle-Earth as he had seen it briefly - tried to picture his sons going about their lives, thinking him dead. Maitimo as King, Macalaurë weaving a death-song for his father... Were they all still alive? Kept separate from everyone but Sauron, Morgoth and the near-silent Avar, he had heard no whisper of the battles that surely took place outside. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of asking Morgoth for news of the world outside; he was sure that the Black Foe would be delighted at a new chance to taunt him.   
  
"Fëanáro," It was the first time the Avar had said his name, and it was filled with sympathy. A hand was laid lightly, unexpectedly, on his arm. "I am... sorry. Please, come along."  
  
Fëanor opened his eyes, looked at the dark shadows on the ceiling and the rock of the walls, and felt sick. "Everything seems to fade," he said, not really directing it towards the Avar; he just wanted to say something, to hear a voice that was not full of cruelty, or soft and fearful. His still had some strength to it. "Perhaps part of it is all the time I have spent asleep - but everything but this place seems to become a little more like a dream, every passing minute. It is hard to fight when you have no weapon, no allies, and what you fight for seems to draw farther away by the second..."  
  
His voice shook slightly at the end, and he curled his fingers. The pain was less, now - or maybe he was getting used to it. Would the little strength he had fail as time went on, he thought bleakly; would his fear of losing what little he had left make him lose his will to fight?  
  
"Please," the Avar said, and tugged at his arm gently. Fëanor allowed himself to be drawn into the bath-room again; there were one or two more Avari at the end of the room, operating the levers that controlled the water, but he did not take much note of them.   
  
"Did you fight them?" he asked the red-headed Avar. "When you were first brought here?"  
  
He avoided Fëanor's eyes, and tried to lead him towards the water. Fëanor stood his ground.   
  
"Answer me," he said, "and I'll get in."   
  
The Avar bit his lip, but finally spoke, still not looking up.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Please, get in."   
  
"Will you answer more of my questions?"  
  
The Avar looked up, towards the empty entrance high on the wall, as if searching for Sauron's permission even in his absence. "Perhaps."  
  
Judging by the tension in his voice, Fëanor would have to settle for that or risk shutting him up altogether. He lowered himself into the water, wincing at having to put pressure on his hands but glad that it was possible - his pain really had decreased.   
  
"Why did you stop fighting them?" he asked, holding onto the edge as the Avar knelt down next to him. The Avar sighed, shaking his head, and Fëanor wondered how long it had been since he had talked this much.   
  
"No reason... no reason to do it," he finally said. "No way to get out - be good, or go to the Pits." He hesitated for a long moment, then carefully said, "I... I wished to live."  
  
There was such a strange mixture of emotion in the statement; shameful and resigned, but with an odd determination, deep underneath.   
  
"You preferred life, here, to death?" Fëanor asked, watching him closely.  
  
The Avar shrugged, not meeting his eyes.   
  
"Why? How can you find it bearable to live in slavery?"  
  
"You are living," the Avar said - softly, but with a flicker of anger in his voice. "Despite Lord Melkor... despite his interest in you. You wish to live."  
  
"I do not wish to live like this!"  
  
The Avar shook his head, sighing, and turned away; when he turned back, it was with a small red bottle in his hand.   
  
"There is no way of escaping," he said slowly, staring at the bottle and turning it over in his hands. "You... you need to understand. It is... painful, to see you struggle."  
  
"If you would help me," Fëanor said, anger flaring hot within him, "I might have a chance of escaping."  
  
Light glinted off the bottle as the Avar uncorked it and poured its contents into the water. Fëanor frowned, pulling back from it; it did not seem to be dissipating into the water quite as a normal liquid should, but hanging together in a faint red cloud that began to cling to his skin.   
  
"What is that?" he asked sharply.   
  
"I am sorry," the Avar said, "that I cannot help you."   
  
The red was vanishing from the water now - was it being absorbed into his skin? "That liquid, what was it?"  
  
The Avar rose, turned away. "I think you can wash yourself," he said quietly. Was Fëanor imagining things, or was there guilt in his voice? Either way, he was gone in a moment - vanishing out the door, which closed all too swiftly behind him - and Fëanor was left alone.   
  
The water was clear around him again;  Fëanor pressed a hand to his skin. It didn't feel oily, or as if something had just been absorbed into it, and he did not feel sick... if he thought hard about it, he might say that he felt slightly - heavy. But it was a hard-to-define feeling, even harder to determine as concrete as he was supported by the water.   
  
In the absence of someone to talk to, he was again struck by the near reality of seeing Melkor again. Hatred, anger and - he had to admit, a sickening shiver of fear - filled him at the thought, and he tightened his hand on the stone side of the bath.   
  
Did he stand a chance of becoming like the Avar? He shook his head hard. No, he could never live like that - he would sooner die, for all he had a will to live. He was sure of it.   
  
Fear persisted, though, in whispers at the back of his mind. Nolofinwë's voice rose to the surface of his mind, a fragment of memory - once, the thought of his half-brother would have made him furious, especially those words. _You are rash, Fëanáro, and make a battle of everything, even when things would be settled far better quietly._   
  
Now, he simply turned the words over in his mind. It was as if his anger and hatred of Melkor drained him, at least in these moments, of the feeling towards anyone else, and he was able to consider what Nolofinwë had said clearly.   
  
Would he serve his cause better by not fighting, unthinkable as it was? It had always been his way - when he sensed someone trying to impose their will upon him, his first response was anger, to bring it out into the open and challenge them clearly. But here - here he was weaponless, the creations he had come to save burned his hands, and his enemies held all the power. Melkor's response to his anger had varied from amusement to, if Fëanor managed to touch a nerve, painful retaliation - and Sauron was all anger, now. Fëanor did not doubt that if his master had not forbidden it Sauron would have already killed him, for all his threats of keeping him alive in some awful way.   
  
That might be useful information, for the future - much as he despised the Doomsman and the thought of going to his Halls, it was infinitely preferable to this place. And he grew more and more painfully certain that he would not be able to last to any point that Melkor might let him wander - even if he did, escape was far beyond unlikely. So death, it seemed, was his most likely path.   
  
Still - still, and he clenched his hand, pain flaring up his arm. Still, it was early enough that Sauron might restrain himself. And he felt certain that his soul would fight leaving his body, just as it had during his violation, unless he found some way to strike back first.   
  
This confrontation with Melkor was inevitable, and he was not sure of what to do. Could he fake submission, or bear to show some of his real fear and weariness - did he even have a choice? Melkor had taken the upper hand by force before. Fëanor did not know what the Vala had planned, but he was sure it would be whatever that black mind could devise as more terrible than their last meeting.   
  
He might only see what Melkor was going to do when confronted with the Vala, and have to react to it then and there.   
  
Fëanor thought again of the Avar looking away, of Sauron's smile and the red liquid and the water, and clenched his hand into a fist once again. Pain was preferable to fear.   
  
_   
  
Sauron would have far preferred to wring the Noldo's neck when he saw him again, but he settled for, when Fëanor stepped outside the room, grinning so as to make his cheeks split up to his ears, his teeth like a wolf's. Fëanor looked sick, and Sauron felt rather pleased with himself.   
  
"Let's go," he said, and turned and walked away without looking back at Fëanor. After a moment, he heard the much lighter footsteps following his, and nodded slightly to himself. Fëanor would be able to see that the corridor had nowhere to go, no other doors or outlets than the one that Sauron would lead him to - Sauron had redesigned it while he slept, so as to provoke a greater sense of helplessness. No detail was wasted when breaking a spirit so annoying resilient as Fëanor's.   
  
He had already been informed that his potion had been administered, but could confirm it himself with a glance behind - the hint of red that ghosted over Fëanor's skin in places, the frown the Noldo wore when he occasionally stumbled, the scent of him. It only needed a final small touch.   
  
When they reached the door of the room Melkor had prepared, he turned and looked down at Fëanor.   
  
"One last thing," he said, and before the Noldo could react he reached down, his arm stretching for the purpose, and placed a fingertip against the hollow of Fëanor's throat. He could feel his pulse, the flutter of his quick, nervous breath - he took a moment to sense the rhythm, gain an understanding for how much of his own power to use. Then he reached in with mind and spirit, finding the red thread that was his potion and knotting it together with a strong burst of his own energy.   
  
The emotion and sensation had to be right, of course; the one you wanted to amplify and consume the person had to be the one you put in yourself. So it was best for him to do it - it was easy for him to fill that energy with longing for his lord, to think of bright eyes and a smirking mouth and a warm voice, with the earthy weight of lust. Easy to fan that weight into a glowing ember of need, and sink it within the spirit made unwillingly open to it by his potion.   
  
Fëanor pulled back, a moment too late to do much of anything, pressing a hand to his throat as he gasped for air.   
  
"What -"  
  
"You'll find out soon enough," Sauron said, even more annoyed that he was going to have to deliver Fëanor and leave now that he had gone to the trouble of making himself excited, and pushed open the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay! It turned out pretty long though, so... yay? Next update should happen much sooner. Also this chapter is... possibly the explicit-est smutty thing I've written to date? wow. yeah. um. I'll just leave now.

The strange heat that blossomed within Fëanor's torso did not seem, for a minute or two, to have a destination - it shivered restlessly up and down his limbs, curled in his groin and stirred his cock, made his vision hazy, but moved, moved without truly settling. That kept it, for a minute or two, from its full power, and Fëanor had enough time to put things together - the red liquid that had been dropped in the water, this must be its full effect, meant to make him more pliable perhaps - before Sauron's clawed fingers closed on his shoulders and pulled him into the room where Melkor waited.  
  
When his eyes went to Melkor, the very world seemed to shudder, and the heat flared and sank heavy in his loins.  
  
No.  
  
"Fëanáro," Melkor said, cold eyes - flushed amber in the light that came from the walls, in this room, for the walls of red and yellow stone seemed to have a light and heat of their own - flicking up and down, appraising. He glanced at Sauron. "He is prepared?"  
  
"Yes, my lord." Sauron sounded half-smug, half-breathless.  
  
Fëanor gritted his teeth, trying to fight the pulse of lust suddenly arising within him. He could not take his eyes away from Melkor, although he hoped his stare was cold.  
  
The dark Vala wore armor, this time. Dark metal that seemed like the armoring of a beetle, shining black plates that were sharp-edged or at least unpleasantly angular, burnt hands now hidden in gauntlets. His face was pale and angular, flushed by the warm light of the room; his hair as dark as the armor he wore.  
  
Melkor tilted his head to a side, then reached down, taking hold of Fëanor's face. A shiver went through Fëanor's body, curling deep in his belly, despite how he tried to hide it, and Melkor's lips curved into a gloating smile.  
  
In the warped lens through which Fëanor now viewed the world, it seemed beautiful.  
  
"Aye, you have done well, it seems," Melkor said, his voice already low with lust. He released Fëanor's chin, looking toward Sauron. "But I'll need to see the full effect before I make a final judgment, my sorceror. Strip him of his robe."  
  
"Of course, my lord." Sauron's hands settled on Fëanor's shoulders again, his breath hot against Fëanor's neck.  
  
Fëanor finally found his voice, as the loose robe he wore was parted and pulled back by Sauron. "Cowards," he said, voice ragged. It was hard to concentrate, to piece together his scattered, distress-ridden thoughts when every nerve in his body was slowly awakening at the sight of Melkor before him, while his very eyes were confounded by Sauron's spell and told him beautiful, lordly.  
  
Melkor laughed, and the sound went straight to his loins. Fëanor shuddered, then went wide-eyed, a puff of breath escaping his lips as Sauron's long-fingered hand slid down, palmed his cock through the material.  
  
"Bold words from a slave," Sauron said in his ear. Fëanor flushed, his arms tensing, on the verge of attempting to lash out, but Melkor's voice interrupted his thoughts.  
  
"He will learn humility soon enough." He was still smiling, his head tilted back - he did not wear the crown, Fëanor realized. Seeing his shock, Melkor raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I do not need to wear a crown to subjagate you, Fëanáro."  
  
Liar, Fëanor wanted to say, you think that I might find something to cling to in them, distract me from what you hope to inflict, or perhaps you are afraid of losing control again - but they never reached his lips, for Sauron finished stripping the single layer of cloth from his body and withdrew a little. He stood before Melkor naked, fists clenched and trembling with the effort to stand, to not panic - and his skin flushed and cock half-hard with arousal. Melkor let out a long, pleased sigh.  
  
"You have outdone yourself, Sauron."  
  
"I thank you, my lord." Sauron bowed, folding the plain robe that Fëanor had worn over in his hands; Fëanor glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, not willing to fully look away from Melkor. "Well..." He looked down at the ground, then turned away. "I should leave you to your amusement, then."  
  
"Nay." Melkor cocked his head to the side, the smile on his lips growing yet more crooked. "Stay. I might need some assistance with handling him."  
  
Fëanor could almost swear he felt Sauron's excitement, tangible and heavy in the air - or was that merely the effects of the potion, that made Sauron's lust for his master run through Fëanor's nerves, Fëanor's veins? The Maia nodded, but still retreated a discreet distance, standing by the door. It made Fëanor feel sick to think of him standing there, watching whatever Melkor might do with his glowing eyes; but the sick feeling did nothing to counteract the heaviness of lust in his body.  
  
Melkor came forward, his boots clicking against the stone floor; he was not quite as tall as he had been when he had tormented Fëanor before, it seemed, but he still stood a head taller than him.  
  
"Kneel to me now," he said quietly, looking down at Fëanor with eyes full of darkness, "and I will give you relief."  
  
A warm flush was spreading across Fëanor's skin from Melkor's proximity, but he managed to force himself to speak.  
  
"I do not want - any relief that you offer, Morgoth."  
  
He knew, in that moment - seeing the smile that curled the corner of Melkor's mouth, feeling the power of what flowed through his body - that he doomed himself. But he could not make himself submit.  
  
As if reading his mind, Melkor nodded slowly.  
  
"You will kneel for me," he said, tone almost conversational. "But it will be far the worse for you, having refused my one offer of mercy." He leant closer, and his breath was hot against Fëanor's ear. "I will not offer again until you beg for it, Fëanáro."  
  
Fëanor had expected what followed next to be a blow, another taunt - but Melkor's gloved fingers tangled roughly in his hair, dark leather brushed against his cheeks as his face was cupped, and Melkor's mouth met his in a cruel parody of a lover's passionate kiss. Not bruising or biting, but tongue probing - and Fëanor found his mouth opening in response, his hands uncurling at his sides.  
  
The shock awakened him slightly from the haze, and he bit down sharply. Melkor jerked back with a hiss, but did not release him; instead he bore down on Fëanor's shoulder, forcing him to his knees.  
  
"You are fighting for nothing," he said, words slurred for a moment by his bitten tongue, "nothing more than more pain, further agony and shame when your fëa refuses to perish." His fingers gripped Fëanor's chin tightly. "Look at me."  
  
Fëanor had been trying not to; when he looked up at Melkor the breath went out of him, and for a moment he could not think.  
  
"Give up, spirit of fire," Melkor murmured, his eyes glittering with excitement once again as Fëanor let out a small, involuntary noise.  
  
Fëanor tried to find words through the fog in his mind, the steady ache in his loins, and finally found himself just shaking his head, the movement slow but unmistakeable. Annoyance flared in Melkor's eyes, verging on anger, and his hand slid down to cover Fëanor's throat.  
  
Involuntarily, Fëanor flinched, his mind alive for a moment with memories of the last time Melkor had touched him. His hands ached with pain, as if the memories had doubled their power.  
  
Melkor laughed.  
  
"No," he said, satisfaction in his voice, "I will not be so rough as I was last time."  
  
His hand slid down from his throat, moved lower. Fire seemed to blossom through every point of Fëanor's body he brushed; he caressed a nipple with the pad of his thumb, and a groan built up in Fëanor's throat again, almost impossible to keep back. He tried to rise, but his body did not want to obey, and Melkor thwarted the weak motion easily with a push down on his shoulder.  
  
"You shall not rise until I say you might," he said, tongue flicking out as if to taste the air, "and what I want from you will be easily done on your knees." He smiled. "Where you now belong."  
  
True to his word, he was not unduly rough, although his hands explored Fëanor's body carelessly; for a few minutes Fëanor was able to bite his lip, hiss angry words when Melkor gave him a moment to think, hold back other noises. Melkor merely grinned at his insults.  
  
When he reached Fëanor's cock, gloved fingers barely brushing the painful hardness of it, a cry escaped Fëanor's lips. He bit it off short, but was not able to prevent his hips bucking forward a little, hungry for more sensation.  
  
He was beginning to lose his last scraps of control; perhaps if he was able to stay calm he could fight longer, but fear flooded his mind in sickly surges and whatever was left was overtaken by anger. Anger at his captor, at the creature who had devised the potion - and now, as Melkor's hands withdrew from his cock, anger at himself, at the broken sound that came from his lips.

"How much longer will he be resistant, do you think?" he heard Melkor saying curiously to Sauron.

"Not much longer, I imagine," Sauron replied smoothly, "it was quite... a powerful mixture," and Fëanor can tell that it's true, that not even his body and spirit can resist the introduction of a Maiar's lust - especially if Melkor kept touching him in ways that made him lose track of what was happening.

It only took a few more minutes.

In the past it had always been the body that bent to the spirit's will, as it should be with the Eldar - but now Fëanor's mind submitted to the cravings of his body, until even words were lost to him and nothing came from his mouth but panting breath and the soft whimpers of a creature deprived and desperate.  
  
Melkor laughed, his mouth briefly pressed against Fëanor's flushed cheek, long tongue tracing the line of a high cheekbone; Fëanor turned his head, instinctually seeking to meet him mouth to mouth, but Melkor withdrew with another chuckle. "I told you I would have another use for your mouth," he said.  
  
He still wore most of his dark armor, keeping the air of authority strong about him, but his cock was exposed now - engorged, thick and standing proud. Fëanor felt a low moan escape his lips in perfect tune with the soft noise that came from Sauron. Melkor twined his fingers in his hair, roughly caressing as if petting the head of a dog; Fëanor tried to move forward, but Melkor set a knee against his shoulder, keeping him back.  
  
"Beg," he said, voice heavy.  
  
  
~  
This was triumph, this was fulfilment that could for a moment bury his every setback in pure gleeful pleasure.  
  
The collar was nothing heavy or harsh - designed by Sauron with a far lighter hand than Melkor would have used, or likely that Sauron was tempted to use. A thin strip, something to show ownership, black and closing with a clasp that could be broken by nobody but the one who put it on. Catching his breath, Melkor tilted Fëanor's chin back, reveling in the last scraps on conflict dying in Fëanor's eyes.  
  
"I hope that before you lose your mind to the urges of your body entirely," he murmured, "you will understand exactly what I am doing to you."  
  
Fëanor's pulse fluttered briefly against his hand as Melkor clasped the collar around his neck; dark against the white skin, and for a moment Melkor almost wished that it were a heavy one - something of iron that would rub the skin red, leave a scar in his flesh even if the collar was ever removed.  
  
It didn't really matter, though. Fëanor would never remove this one, now.  
  
Melkor sensed Sauron shifting restlessly, and with a mixture of annoyance and amusement brushed the questioning of his mind away. Wait a little longer. There's more I can do with him before I need your hands.  
  
"Now," he said, gripping Fëanor's chin, "beg."  
  
He had broken many of the Eldar and Avari in the past; even destroyed the wills of Maiar, or bent them to his own. And yet when Fëanor's tongue flicked out over his dry lips and a soft, broken sound that could be taken as a plea left them, Melkor felt as if it were the first time he had accomplished it.  
  
"What was that?" he urged, pleasure deepening his voice; his cock was aching, his all-too-earthly hröa blessed with little of the control he had held of old.  
  
Fëanor's gaze fell to the floor, dark lashes shading his eyes - some remnant of shame affecting his shameless lust, but not enough to keep him from speaking.  
  
"Please..."  
  
One word, low and hoarse and strained, and it seemed as good as hours of tormented begging that Melkor had coaxed from other prisoners.  
  
Melkor smiled, the wideness of it stretching his mouth almost inhumanly wide, and guided Fëanor's head a little closer to his cock, watching Fëanor's mouth open a little wider, thought of days in Valinor when the Elda would not even deign to look at him.  
  
"Please what?" he asked, ignoring Sauron's grumble at the back of his mind. His lieutenant simply did not understand how to have fun.  
  
Fëanor gasped, tongue darting out over his lips again, and his mouth moved as if trying to shape a word he had forgotten.  
  
"The conflict within his mind and body might be such his ability to speak is impaired," Sauron said aloud. Melkor glanced at him with his eyebrow arched.  
  
"Are you hoping to kill the mood with your dry words?" he asked. Before Sauron had a chance to respond, he turned back to Fëanor, and tugged the Elda's head up a little. Teeth clenched for a moment at the self-restraint required to not simply thrust into his mouth, he guided the tip of his cock between Fëanor's parted lips.  
  
He did not have to wait long for Fëanor's mouth to close on it; he groaned, letting his eyes flutter shut for a moment, before exerting even greater restraint and pulling Fëanor's head back, forcing him to let the cock slip from his mouth.  
  
"Do you want that?" he asked breathlessly, caressing the pale line of Fëanor's neck - because ah, the Elda was so beautiful like this, debauched and helpless, his pulse beating rabbit-quick in his throat, a moan leaving his lips. Melkor could almost forget that it was due to Sauron's potions. He cupped Fëanor's jaw, groaning as Fëanor nudged blindly into the touch. "To take me in your mouth?"  
  
"Yes," Fëanor gasped - a little clearer now, his brows knitted with distress, eyes squeezing tightly shut. Melkor could see with a glance downward that he was fully hard.  
  
"Perhaps I should allow it, then," he said, laughter in his voice, "before you come merely from the thought of sucking my cock, hm?"  
  
"I think that's too complex of a statement for him to follow at the moment," Sauron said flatly. Melkor ignored him, instead relaxing his hold on Fëanor's hair a little, pulling the Elda's head forward until the head of Melkor's cock rested against his lips again.  
  
"Beg, one more time," he said, pushing the palm of his gloved hand lightly against Fëanor's forehead when the Elda tried to lean forward and take it in. "Say 'please, Lord Melkor'."  
  
For a moment Fëanor's eyes half-opened, and Melkor thought he saw a spark of fire in them that threatened to overcome the clouding of desire.  
  
Then his eyes closed again, and his shoulders slackened.  
  
"Please," he said, the motion of his lips against Melkor's cockhead maddening, "Lord..."  
  
His teeth closed over the last word, as if if that did not leave his lips he still preserved something vital, something that even his ragged conciousness strove to cling to; but what he had said was enough to satisfy Melkor, in his impatience.  
  
Melkor thrust forward, giving a low groan as Fëanor's lips parted to accept him; taking glorious satisfaction in the heat of his mouth, of the way his brows knitted and his neck curved, his throat working when Melkor pushed in farther and pressed against the entrance of it.  
  
This was, far, far better than the days when he had come to Fëanor in sleep, when he had been forced to be gentle for fear of being found out. And the litany of half-lies -- warnings against his half-brothers, fears fanned into paranoia -- that Melkor had fed him in the past was no longer necessary; now, he could say what he wished.  
  
"Now what I have said has come to pass," he said, pulling on Fëanor's hair sharply, thrusting so that the Elda nearly choked, "you are - ah - on your knees for me, Fëanáro, and how I enjoy putting your sweet mouth to use."  
  
It was a far sweeter thing, indeed, to have Fëanor's mouth workly wetly around him, desperate and hungry despite Melkor's rough treatment, than to be able to do nothing but daydream about it in the days Melkor had been bound to good behavior in Valinor.  
  
"It was maddening, to see you half-clothed and panting for my touch in your sleep," Melkor groaned, uncaring that Fëanor likely could not understand half of what he was saying, now, "and to not do more than touch you a little, make you mewl and buck..." He rolled his hips, thrusting steadily into Fëanor's mouth now, relishing the sight of the Elda's lips wrapped around his cock. "To not even let you spend at my hand, so I could relish the thought of you coming for me when I saw you sneering at me next."  
  
Sauron moved restlessly, his mind brushing almost roughly against Melkor's; Melkor growled in annoyance at the interruption, and Sauron cast his eyes penitently down.  
  
"I merely thought, my lord," he said, "that you might need my assistance with something."  
  
Melkor had almost forgotten, in his enjoyment of Fëanor's debasement, but, "Yes," he answered, breathlessly. "Come prepare him to be taken, my sorcerer. After all --" he gave another sharp thrust, hissed in pleasure as Fëanor groaned, "-- I do not want to deny him what he wants so badly, after all."  
  
Sauron nodded, eyes unreadable, and knelt behind Fëanor. Melkor watched with a pleased grin as Sauron cupped Fëanor's finely-shaped buttocks, pushed them apart a little and slid a inhumanly-thin finger into the opening between them. The sight of the action, as clinically as Sauron executed it, sent a fresh rush of lust to his loins.  
  
"Very good," he murmured. Fëanor pulled back a little, a shudder going through his body at the intrusion, and Melkor pulled him back in place.  
  
"This is all you need to think about," he said with a slight chuckle, pulling up Fëanor's chin so he could slide his cock in deeper. "Swallow - ah." Even with endurance far more than the average mortal's, he was going to spend soon if he did not pull out. "Look at him, Sauron," he said, voice thick with lust. "Once in the past, when I was planting thoughts in his head, I slipped a finger into his mouth; he suckled it just as sweetly and hungrily as he does my cock now. Ah - he may have been born a prince, but he was made to be such a fine plaything."  
  
Sauron bent his head a little, not responding; but the next moment Fëanor bucked a little, giving a muffled groan around Melkor's cock so that the Vala was forced to withdraw for fear of spending before he was ready.  
  
"Now, my lieutenant," Melkor said breathlessly, "touch him so, and you'll make him come too soon."  
  
"No fear of that," Sauron replied coolly. Melkor looked closer, and smiled as he saw that Sauron had fingers wrapped tightly around the base of Fëanor's cock, keeping release at bay; his other hand he had changed, for ease of preparing Fëanor, into a steadily thickening tendril that stretched him wider by the moment. For better security, he had added a third arm that gripped Fëanor about the hips.  
  
"Perfect," Melkor said, and bent down to hook his fingers through Fëanor's collar.  
  
Fëanor's face was flushed, his lips reddened, his breath coming ragged gulps; Melkor had never seen him so debauched, so helpless, and had consequentially never seen something so delightful.  
  
"Do you want me to take you?" he asked, running his thumb over Fëanor's cheekbone. The Elda gave another little cry as Sauron mercilessly thickened the width of the appendage within him, and Sauron spoke up in a cool voice.  
  
"Again, my lord, a little much for him to understand at the moment."  
  
Melkor frowned. "Sauron, you will not spoil my mood." Turning his gaze back to Fëanor, he added, "I will ask again and again, then, until he understands."  
  
More soft 'please's' were leaving Fëanor's lips when Melkor bent down to listen to him; pleading for something, anything. "It's all I can do to not stop your whimpering with my cock again," Melkor said, laughing. "You'll have to ask more clearly if you want more. So tell me; do you want me to take you, as Sauron is preparing you now?"  
  
He could already guess the answer would be 'yes'; Sauron's appendage was almost as thick as his cock, now, and Fëanor's hips were beginning to work back onto it with little twitches and jerks. Melkor wished he could be the one preparing Fëanor himself, but a painful throb of his hands reminded him of why that was impossible.  
  
"Do you?" he asked again, voice harsh with lust. "Do you want to sate your lust, O spirit of fire, by riding me? Or is that too much for the weak protests in your mind, and you want to be held down and spitted as if by a spear, fucked until you scream for mercy?"  
  
"W-want..."  
  
"He is ready, my lord," Sauron said, a tremor in his voice the only indication of his own frustration. Melkor prided himself on being able to bother his servant despite Sauron's greater control over his body, and he took a moment to relish Sauron's reluctance to move away before he took a few steps back, sank down on his low chair, and beckoned to Fëanor.  
  
"Come to me," he commanded.  
  
Fëanor was breathing hard, head bent, but when Melkor's voice sounded his head went up; of course, Melkor reflected, if he contained a reflection of Sauron's lust, in a way, then the fact that Sauron trying his best to be cool and collected was faltering meant that Fëanor was drowning in a veritable torture of unfulfilled lust. And it showed - he came forward, on hands and knees, until Melkor leant forward and wrapped a hand in his hair to drag him upright.  
  
There were things in Fëanor's eyes that he had never thought to see beyond his dreams - the glazed look was annoying, to be sure, as it reminded him of the tricks he'd had to use to gain this domination; but there was also lust, and a kind of wonder -- Melkor remembered Fëanor fighting, earlier, against looking at him with something almost like infatuation, and smiled.  
  
"Mount me," he commanded, letting his legs fall a little more open.  
  
He had half-expected that Fëanor would balk at this point and fight, that he would be forced to be more rough with him -- but Fëanor hesitated, licked his lips, and lifted his leg up over Melkor's. Melkor almost gaped at the sight; Fëanor, pale skin flushed almost red and collar standing out dark against his skin, lowering himself onto his cock. Legs splayed, head tilted back, lip bitten in vain to prevent noises spilling from his lips, a sight that almost made Melkor spend there and then.  
  
As Fëanor fully seated himself, Melkor's cock taken to the hilt, Melkor found his voice to laugh.  
  
"What a fine sight!" he said, shifting his hips and watching the answering gasp from Fëanor. "I can scarcely wait for when you recover from the potion, Fëanáro; I want you to remember that even I expected more resistance, and that instead --" he lifted his hips a little to make Fëanor moan, "-- instead, you wanted this enough to set yourself on my cock without me having to lift a finger."  
  
Fëanor closed his eyes, but said nothing. Melkor frowned in annoyance at the reminder that he was in no fit state to argue, and the feeling that something was still being kept from him.  
  
"We'll see how long you remain silent," he muttered.  
  
He had considered waiting it out a little longer, see if he could persuade Fëanor to do the work, but his frustration -- coupled with the simple hungering of his body to move, to use the sweet pressure around his cock -- made it less appealing now. Besides, as much as he enjoyed Fëanor's humiliation, or the thought of how keen it would be in the future, at enjoying Melkor's touch... he enjoyed it when pain knitted the Elda's brow just as much, when he didn't have to consider being slower or less rough.  
  
His annoyance soon fades as he moves, snaps his hips up and Fëanor cries out, having to put a hand out to support himself. The Elda's hair is black silk in his fist, and every moment that it pains him is made more bearable, now, by the scarring on Fëanor's hands. However willing or not, aware or not, Fëanor is beautiful with his teeth gritted and breath coming hard, legs trembling with the force of Melkor's thrusts and his own unfulfilled lust.  
  
Feeling generous, Melkor reached out with his free hand to encircle Fëanor's cock. The Elda's eyes opened for a second, a strangled cry breaking from his lips again, and his hips pushed forward as much as they could, speared as he was on Melkor's length.  
  
"I did promise you, once, that I would allow you to come for me," Melkor said hoarsely, feeling his own pleasure grow as Fëanor rocked forward and back of his own accord, trying to get friction in Melkor's loose grip. He ran the pad of his thumb over the slit, relishing Fëanor's whimper. "When I had used your mouth -- as I have -- and heard you beg for me." He chuckled. "As you did, on your knees."  
  
Fëanor's mouth worked silently for a moment, then formed a word -- "Please -"  
  
"You've learned that one, at least," Melkor said, and tightened his grip; let Fëanor have a moment of real friction before letting it up again, smiling at the soft cry of frustration Fëanor gave. "But you'll have to learn something else, Fëanáro -- something you should know quite well by now."  
  
He pulled the Elda's head back by the hand he still had in his hair. "I am your master now, as I am the master of everyone here, and you need to learn your place. And I fear," he mused, although keeping up his unconcerned tone was difficult with Fëanor shifting and wriggling like he was, "that despite how well you've done, it's more thanks to Sauron's help than you finally realizing how futile your stubbornness is."  
  
There was a slight air of satisfaction from Sauron. Melkor disregarded it for the moment, focusing on Fëanor.  
  
"So we'll give you one last reminder, for when you recover... say 'master'."  
  
It took a minute, of Fëanor stopping and starting, that spark in his eyes flaring up again, of Melkor making his thrusts slow and deep and almost driving himself to his breaking point and giving in to the urge to drop the last humiliation, until finally Fëanor murmured it, cheeks stained red with effort and the last remains of shame.  
  
"...Master."  
  
"Good." Melkor quickened the pace, gripping Fëanor's hair roughly, and moved his hand; he didn't have to do much, just tighten and pull a little and let Fëanor thrust into his touch with eager little twitches of his hips, downright blissful moans; if Fëanor had been far gone before this, it seemed his own lust being indulged sent the last dreams of resistance out of the window entirely. "Say it again," Melkor urged, sharply. "Say it."  
  
"Ah -- master --" Perhaps there was a touch of Sauron's cadence in the way he said it, but Melkor doubted that Fëanor would remember that. He could tell that Sauron had noticed too, felt a flare of even brighter frustration from the other side of the room.  
  
With a sharp, wordless cry, Fëanor came before Melkor had really expected it; hands braced against Melkor's breastplate and legs shaking as he spent, body clenching down on Melkor. It might have been enough to make Melkor follow suit, but for the brief flare of annoyance that came at the white liquid spilled across the black metal and cloth of his armor.  
  
He was sure that Sauron would make some snarky comment about being better prepared for the situation in the future, and forestalled it by forcing Fëanor's head down, getting almost no resistance.  
  
"Clean it up," he commanded; there was a moment of hesitation, but Fëanor's tongue finally slipped out to lick at the topmost streak.  
  
That was enough to finish Melkor off. 

 

* * *

 

 

So, the incredible [tyelpings ](http://tyelpings.tumblr.com/)drew this while I was writing the chapter (very slowly) and it was an excellent source of inspiration, as you can clearly see.

 


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